A Sonata for Two
by Sandylee007
Summary: When Dr. John Watson dies Sherlock Holmes and their son Hamish are left behind to try and build a life without him. Will they ever be a real family with one of them stolen away? Or is the little family doomed to fall apart? SLASH, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH
1. Left Behind

A/N: This idea came to me out of nowhere and I was powerless against it, soooooo… (smirks a bit sheepishly)

WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, SLASH, sadness, emotions, a bit of language, perhaps some blood and such, adult themes… (glances around) Uh… Where'd ya go?

DISCLAIMER: Pfft! As if… But I suppose that having dreams of the series doesn't count…?

I'm gonna kick start this before I'll change my mind, sooooo… (gulps loudly) Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

**_A Sonata for Two_**

* * *

Left Behind

* * *

The sun is shining brightly, making all the dust lingering in 221B Baker Street entirely too visible. Sherlock Holmes scowls, his nose wrinkling as though he would've smelled or tasted something incredibly foul. The sun shouldn't be shining today.

Not when he's forced to say goodbye to his whole goddamned world.

He hears steps and stiffens, his arms folding in a defensive manner. The steps pause but not with hesitation. He hears a heavy, suffering sigh. "Why am I not surprised?" Mycroft Holmes' eyes are full of disappointment and something else that infuriates Sherlock. Sadness. Pity. He _does not_ want pity from his brother. The man offers a suit towards him. "Put this on. Right now."

Sherlock glares at the older, narrowing his eyes in a manner he hopes conveys the exact degree of his reluctance. "No." He hates how scratchy and unused his voice sounds. Like he'd screamed until his throat became raw.

Mycroft's left eyebrow twitches, as does one corner of the man's lips. But his brother maintains his composure in a true British manner. _Mommy would be proud_, Sherlock muses a great deal more bitterly than he's strictly proud of.

When he looks away, already imagining that he's won this one, Mycroft finally speaks. "I'm not asking for my sake, Sherlock." That tone sure catches his attention. As does the touch of ache that a careful ear manages to catch. Surely it isn't possible that Mycroft is missing John, too? But then again, perhaps it is. With the amount of attention there's been since _that_ day he's gotten a rather clear picture of just how many hearts the doctor touched. "I'm asking for John. And Hamish, too. He'll never forgive you if you make him face all of this without you."

Sherlock shivers and tells himself that it's because of the chilly weather. He folds his arms even more tightly, swallowing against the blockage building up in his throat. "What difference would it make?" he spits, like the words were poison. "He already blames me for…" The words fail him.

Mycroft takes a deep breath. It takes exactly four seconds before his brother speaks in a oddly soft tone. "He's seven years old. What happened to John… He barely understands it. But he _does_ understand if you're not there beside him today, holding his hand, when he says goodbye to his daddy. And that, brother dear, is something that he'd never, ever forgive you. Neither would John."

Sherlock grimaces from the impact of the low blow. _Well played, Mycroft._ He grits his teeth together tightly to refrain from speaking and glares pointedly at the window.

Mycroft sighs, sounding years older than his actual age. "There's a car expecting you", the British government announces, steps already distancing. "You have five minutes."

Sherlock makes the mistake of assuming that the conversation is over. But then Mycroft's voice sounds once more. "Oh, and Sherlock? I'm sorry." With that the door closes.

Sherlock can't remember when he fetched a glass of water. Did Mrs. Hudson give it to him? But at the moment he knows very well what to do with it.

With absolutely all the strength he can muster he throws it at a wall, feeling a great deal less satisfaction than he'd been hoping for while watching the water and shards hit the floor. Each piece and drop shining like a diamond in sunlight. All of a sudden his eyes hurt a lot more than his head does.

* * *

Hamish Watson-Holmes trembles while he sits in one of uncle Mycroft's cars with his arms wrapped as firmly as possible around his mid-section. His chest feels tight and it hurts to breathe. His stomach doesn't feel right, either.

A sob erupts despite his best efforts and he wipes away the tears quickly, only to discover that new ones come instantly. The frustration only succeeds in making him cry harder. The next sob is a lot louder.

He wishes, from the bottom of his tiny heart, that his daddy was there with him. Holding his hand. Telling him that everything's going to be alright.

But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? Nothing will ever be okay again. Because daddy is never, ever coming back.

He jumps with startle when the car's door is hauled open and doesn't quite manage to relax when his pa throws himself in. His pa appears tense and angry. Very, very angry. And sad. Hamish's mouth opens but in the end he doesn't dare to say the words dangling on his tongue. Instead he turns his head and looks out the window, fighting his hardest against the tears that want to come. He doesn't quite succeed.

They've been driving in absolute silence that's only broken by Hamish's restrained sobs for a long time until his pa speaks. "Are you alright?"

Hamish doesn't dare to speak in fear that his voice might break. Instead he shakes his head, fast enough to make himself feel dizzy. Or perhaps he's lightheaded because it's so hard and painful to breathe.

His pa is silent again. Hamish wonders if it's because of disappointment. The man, who appears terrifyingly large beside him all of a sudden, finally speaks when the car parks outside a church. "We're here", the man announces gruffly, already getting out of the vehicle. "Let's get this over with."

Hamish follows although he isn't entirely sure if he's able to stand, let alone take actual steps. He's more than a little surprised at the discovery that he can. He trembles from cold and pain while hurrying to keep up with his pa's long steps, walking in the tall man's shadow and keeping his head down to hide his tears.

And misses his daddy from the bottom of his heart and soul

* * *

The whole ordeal is long and tedious. Sherlock's foot taps and his fingers squirm the entire time as he struggles to figure out what to do with himself. He tries to find some way, any way, to rid at at least a tiny portion of the agony that seems to consuming him in whole.

A lot of people attend. Far more of them than Sherlock would've liked insist on having a speech. Sherlock detests them all. There are no words that do Dr. John Hamish Watson justice. Harry Watson, quite expectedly, makes a scene when it's her turn. As though she was the one hurting the most. Sherlock is glad that she's escorted away. He knows that there's a bottle in her purse that's calling her name. _For once she has a decent excuse_, he muses snarkily.

Sherlock himself doesn't speak. He wouldn't have even moved to follow the crowd and the coffin – _a black one made of expensive wood, Harry's choice not his, John would've hated it_ – if DI Greg Lestrade didn't nudge him along.

Hamish loses all control over himself when they lower the coffin and begin to cover it. The little boy cries so hard that the child can barely breathe. Sherlock hates himself, more than a little bit, for his inability to do a thing to comfort his son. For not feeling even nearly as much for the boy as he knows is expected of him. For not feeling even the slightest urge to follow when Mrs. Hudson, crying openly herself, takes Hamish gently to her arms and begins to carry the hysterically crying child away.

It makes sense that Sherlock feels so little, perhaps, since his heart's just being buried into the ground.

And then, all of a sudden, it's over. One by one the visitors leave, giving Sherlock looks that he hates from the bottom of his heart. The pity is almost as unbearable as the words.

'_Look after yourself and Hamish, yeah?_' (How the hell am I supposed to do that?)

'_Everything's going to work out._' (No, you imbecile! Nothing is ever going to be alright again.)

'_If you need anything at all, I'll be there._' (No, you won't.)

'_I'm truly sorry for your loss._' (No, you're not. You have no fucking idea of what I've lost.)

In the end it's just Sherlock, stood there before John's grave. Staring at it with eyes that see barely a thing. And right there he feels more lost than he ever has in his entire life.

"What the hell were you thinking, John?" he snaps in the end. His voice doesn't sound familiar even to his own ears. "Leaving me alone with Hamish. What am I supposed to do with him? How are we supposed to deal without you, you idiot?" His eyes sting hellishly but he fights against it, determined to maintain whatever little control he still has. Whatever little power there still is in his hands. He swallows thickly, not liking the taste in his mouth. "You promised me, John. Remember? You promised! So what the hell is this?"

Nothing but the wind answers him.

Sherlock stands there, even when it eventually begins to rain. And somehow the sky cries the tears that he can't. He wonders if he can ever make himself move again.

If he can ever make himself stop waiting.

* * *

TBC OR NOT?

* * *

A/N: Okay, that was… emotional. (wipes eyes) Those poor things! How in the world are they going to overcome this?

Soooo… Was that any good to you, at all? Or should I just demolish this immediately? PLEASE, do leave a review and let me know! It'd seriously fill my day with sunshine.

Thank you so much for reading! 'Hope I'll see you again one day.

Take care!


	2. Wish You Were Here

A/N: It's time for chapter two! (grins) BUT, first…

THANK YOU, so much, for you reviews and love! I'm absolutely thrilled that you've decided to join this emotional ride. So thank you! (hugs)

Awkay, before I get all sappy… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

_The stars lean down to kiss you_

_And I lie awake and miss you_

_Pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere_

_'Cause I'll doze off safe and soundly_

_But I'll miss your arms around me_

_I'd send a postcard to you, dear_

_'Cause I wish you were here_

(Owl City; 'Vanilla Twilight')

* * *

Wish You Were Here

* * *

Sherlock is fairly sure that it's been five or six days from John's funeral. The days have become nothing but a blur so he can't be entirely sure. Mrs. Hudson stops by a lot. So does Mycroft. Sherlock _hates_ it.

He wonders how long it'll take before he stops expecting John whenever he hears someone approaching the door.

Gritting his teeth Sherlock closes his eyes. Only to open them again instantly when the sight of John's face fills his line of vision. His mental image of John is already tattered. He isn't too proud to admit to himself that he's, just a little, scared of facing the day when it's damaged beyond all repair. When he can't trust his memories anymore.

A scream pulls Sherlock out of his gloomy thoughts.

In a instant he's on the move. By the time he reaches Hamish's room the boy is already awake, crying hysterically and shaking pitiably. Sherlock isn't entirely what to do to comfort his son. Hamish seems to have an idea, though.

Much faster than Sherlock would've been ready for it his son is in his arms, clinging to him like a drowning man to a life-buoy. The sobs that still continue are loud and so full of hearbreak that it's painful to listen.

"Daddy", Hamish manages in the end. The boy who's always been entirely too mature sounds achingly small and young all of a sudden. "I want daddy."

_So do I_, Sherlock muses bitterly. Listening to his son's wrenching cries he wishes that he'd be able to let his own tears roll as well. Perhaps then he'd feel a little less hollow.

* * *

The following evening Sherlock is on his way to tuck Hamish in when he pauses mid-stride at the sound of the boy whispering. At first he imagines that his son is talking to himself. It would've been almost comforting – at least something taken from him despite no biological bond – but after listening for a few moments he knows better.

Hamish… sobs. The words that come out are strangled and barely audible. "… don't wanna go to school tomorrow, daddy. They… They'll ask things. And I don't want to answer. Why are they asking when they all know?" The little boy wipes his eyes bravely but more tears come instantly. The child's whole tiny frame is trembling. "And you… You always took me to school. Remember? Every day. I don't want to go there without you."

Sherlock swallows thickly, realizing that he's trembling as well. Every single one of his instincts is urging him to go inside, to comfort his son. Yet he remains rooted to the spot by something that he can't even name.

Hamish lifts his face, unashamed or no longer aware of his tears. Those moist, nearly desperate eyes rise towards the room's window, seeing something that can only be guessed. "Come back, daddy. Please."

/ _"But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me."_ /

In all, utter honesty Sherlock doesn't know how he ended up there. But surely enough he finds himself sitting in front of 221, inhaling long drags of a cigarette like it's his sole lifeline. His hands still haven't stopped shaking. It infuriates him.

Sherlock tries to feel irritation when Mrs. Hudson appears. She sits beside him with a admonishing look on her face. "That's such a nasty habit, dear."

Sherlock doesn't have the strength, words or will for a argument so he shrugs, not tossing the cigarette away. It's beginning to taste even more horrid than it had to begin with. "I heard Hamish talking to him today", he spits out instead. It comes out a lot more harshly than he originally intended.

Mrs. Hudson doesn't appear bothered by his tone. A great deal of sadness appears to her eyes. "He misses John terribly", she sighs softly, taking a long inhale of late evening's crisp air. She shivers at the cold, or perhaps for some entirely different reason. "We all do."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. Finally he tosses the cigarette to the ground and stomps on it far harder than would've been necessary. It doesn't offer him even a tenth of the satisfaction he was looking for.

John's fault, all of it.

That he's smoking again.

That he and Hamish are having nightmares, that Mrs. Hudson is holding back tears right now.

That nothing is alright in the world anymore.

"I know how much you loved John. And I'm sure that he did, too." Mrs. Hudson gets up slowly, the cold clearly getting to her. She turns so fast that he can't see her face. "It's completely alright to be angry at him, too, dear. Just for a little while. You need to let yourself feel, whatever those feelings are." With that she disappears inside and into her own apartment.

Sherlock doesn't know how much longer he's been sitting there until he finally decides that he'd have to check up on Hamish. Getting up slowly he steals a glance towards the night sky. His eyes lock on a certain star for a moment before he shakes his head forcefully.

Sentiment, nothing more.

As it turns out Hamish had cried himself to sleep. Feeling a stab of pain he can't explain Sherlock tucks the little boy in, gives the achingly familiar fair curls a soft caress. "I'm sorry", he whispers in a voice he can't recognize.

Sherlock leaves the room as quietly as a ghost and saunters to the bedroom he used to share with John. He stares at the miserably large and lonely bed for a long moment before finally climbing in. It feels much colder than it should've.

Sherlock closes his eyes and inhales deeply. The unmistakable scent of John lulls him to sleep. It's still enough although with each day a little bit more of it is missing. He doesn't dare to even wonder what'll happen when the scent disappears completely.

* * *

The following morning Hamish wakes up to a smell that makes him wonder if something has caught fire. His eyes fly wide while he attempts to figure out which one of the ten – or no, twelve – experiments his pa is working on it could be. In a flash he's out of the bed and on his way towards the kitchen. What the boy discovers makes him freeze to the doorway.

It's not an experiment or the flat where the smell comes from. It's… what looks suspiciously lot like some sort of a omelette and a slice of toast. There's a look of deep concentration on his pa's face while the man finishes preparing the meal.

Sherlock's expression softens a slight bit when the man notices him. "It's about time you wake up. Now do hurry and eat something or you'll be late." His pa puts far more food than Hamish thinks he's able to consume to a plate. "I'll walk you to school on my way to the Yard."

Hamish frowns at the discovery that the man takes no food for himself. "Pa? You should eat, too."

Sherlock scoffs in a way he knows very well. "You know perfectly well that I don't eat…"

"… while you work on a case. I know." Hamish can't help the smile that makes its way to his face. It feels so good, to have at least this tiny bit of normalcy.

The silence that lingers between them is comfortable and thoughtful. About twenty minutes later they're already on their way towards Hamish's school. It's around then the fear the child's been feeling for a while takes over once more. He swallows loudly, attempts to blink away the moisture that forms into his eyes.

_Please, daddy…!_

All of a sudden there's a hand in his. He looks down with surprise. No, it's not his daddy's. Instead his pa is supporting him, eyes darted firmly ahead and a look of intense focus on his face. When Hamish squeezes testingly his pa returns the gesture. It makes the whole ordeal feel just a little less terrifying.

Somehow they both find comfort from the thought that John is walking right there behind them, watching over them.

* * *

DI Gregory Lestrade's been stalling it for as long as he possibly could. But his superiors, while understanding, have given direct orders. There was a case that led to the death of someone who can only be considered a civilian. Answers are needed. Greg wishes that he had any.

Because even as he stares at the blank sheet of paper in front of him he can't bring himself to comprehend how it's possible that Dr. John Watson is dead.

* * *

/ _Greg was panting from running around for what felt like ages without the slightest sign of the killer. Everywhere around him the Yard's finest were sweeping through the alleyways and all possible locations where the suspect could've hidden himself. Greg already had a cell phone in his hand, prepared to call Sherlock or even Mycroft if necessary, when a single sound made the entire world freeze._

_A gunshot._

_Somehow, already as he sped to motion, Greg _knew_ that he'd find something horrific._ /

* * *

"Sir." Sally Donovan's voice startles Greg out of his thoughts and memories. She looks like she hasn't been sleeping well. "There's… Well, you should come and see for yourself. He's out there again."

Greg inhales and rubs his eyes far more roughly than would've felt strictly comfortable. "I'll be there in a bit." If he manages to summon the strength, that is.

In the end it takes six minutes before Greg walks through the Yard's doors and sighs heavily at the sight he discovers. Sherlock is standing out there, smoking with a unreadable expression on his alarmingly pale face. It's easy to tell that the detective hasn't been sleeping or eating. Hasn't been doing… anything, really.

"Still no cases for me?" Sherlock inquires around a long drag.

Greg groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. After nine, or is it ten, repetitions this is becoming a new routine. "You know perfectly well why I can't give you a case, Sherlock", he sighs.

"Hmph."

During the deep silence that follows Greg takes the time to observe his friend's appearance. There's a new scarf, he notices. One with no blood stains. Instantly a sickening memory crashes in.

* * *

/ _Nothing, absolutely nothing, could've prepared Greg for what he found. The first thing he discovered was Sherlock, hunched over something. He approached with a frown, wondering if it was the killer. His heart skipped a beat and his eyes widened when he noticed the sleeve of a entirely too familiar green coat._

No…!

_Sherlock was talking quickly and loudly. For a moment Greg thought that the words were for John but then he noticed the cell phone. Sherlock was calling an ambulance. Good. Good. The faster help got there…_

_The hint of relief lived until he caught the sight of John's face. Pale, a distant look in those eyes. And the blood… Good grief, there was so much of it. Too much. Where the hell was it all even coming from?!_

_Before Greg registered properly that he was moving he'd knelt to the doctor's side, the pain in his knees and the running away suspect be damned. He was quite positive that there were only a couple of times in his life when he'd felt such terror. "John", he breathed out, his eyes assessing the damage. He was relieved that the scarf Sherlock had pressed firmly to the wound blocked the worst of it. He wasn't sure if… "Just… Just stay awake, yeah?" He attempted to produce a smile although it hurt. "You're gonna be alright." _

_John nodded faintly, blinking sluggishly a couple of times. Later Greg would think that the man was already more than halfway gone. "'know." The doctor looked at him as intently as the man was able to muster. Clearly what was about to come was important. "Hamish… Someone needs to pick him up from school." There was a frown. Much later Greg would wonder what, exactly, the former soldier saw. "And Sherlock… The bloody git hasn't been eating. Make him eat. 'needs to sleep, too."_

_Greg grinned, just a little bit. "I can promise to do whatever I can. But I'm no miracle worker."_

_John smirked, just a little bit. "That's… Sherlock's field of… expertise." At the moment Greg didn't know that those were the last words he'd ever hear from his friend._

_A minute and twelve seconds later John's eyes closed. Five more minutes later the ambulance appeared, resulting to Greg having to hold back a struggling and screaming Sherlock to keep the detective from interfering with the medics' work. Another five minutes behind them found the two of them entering the hospital._

_John never even made it to the hospital. Sherlock, Greg firmly on his tails, barged in just in time to discover a doctor calling the time of death only two steps inside the hospital. It didn't make any sense, still didn't. John looked like he was just sleeping._ /

* * *

By the time Greg manages to shake away the grips of the horrific memory he realizes that Sherlock is already leaving. "Sherlock." Miraculously the man indeed stops. The DI swallows, wondering how to set his words. "It… It wasn't your fault. You do know that, right?"

Sherlock shudders like someone who's been shot at. Those were clearly not the right words, then. "You… have no fucking idea." It's a hiss, so full of pain and suffering that it hurts to hear. "So don't come telling me if it's my fault or not." With those words the detective walks away, his steps long and quick.

Greg takes a deep breath that doesn't ease the weight sitting on his chest at all.

_Do you see what you did, John? Those two… They need you. You'd better look after them, do you hear me?_

It takes ten minutes before Greg manages to wipe his eyes and walk back inside.

* * *

TBC?

* * *

A/N: Oh, dear… (winces) Poor Sherlock and Hamish sure have it rough. Let's hope that they'll be able to get some relief in the end. (sighs)

Sooo… Any good, at all? A lot of not good? PLEASE, do let me know! Hearing from you always makes my day. (gives puppy dog eyes) Interested in reading four more chapters, perhaps…?

Until next time! I REALLY hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!


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